


In Time

by Sherloqued



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Chivalry, Courtly Love, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherloqued/pseuds/Sherloqued
Summary: Sansa and the Hound begin to acknowledge that they care for one another.





	1. Introduction

He'd been drinking.  He had never needed the fortification of drink in any battle or tournament before, his anger and hate had always been enough; and he took another long draught. The flames, the fear, and he wanted to get to her before Stannis Baratheon's soldiers descended upon the house.  They would not be kind.  The room smelled of the sweet fragrance she wore.  He knew he stunk of battle and drink.  He heard as she entered her bedchamber, and as she rushed to bolt and barricade the heavy door.  

When she turned round with her lantern, she was surprised to see him sitting there, in the dark.

"Why are you here?"  she asked of him, her voice strained in her fright, but it was no longer him she was afraid of.  Despite his sometimes rough manner at first, she had come to feel safe in his presence and at the soothing sound of his voice, and hearing his name for her, little bird.  He was a gentleman.

"I am leaving.  I will no longer be in the service of the Lannisters." he said.  "I thought you should know."

His eyes were moist; and there was a woundedness in them.

"Where will you go? How will you get by?"

"I don't know, wander maybe.  To the North, might do.  Could do." He glanced over at her cautiously, trying to gauge her reaction.

"As a Hedge Knight!"

He rose from the chair and came towards her.

"Come with me!" he finally blurted out. "Winterfell is your home; I could take you back there with me."

"I cannot." 

But she felt the pang of the realization that she wanted to, and would miss him dearly. When the time was right, she would want a man, not a cruel, spoilt boy.

"I know you would never hurt me, Ser Sandor."    He towered over her; but her goodness pierced his chest as sharply as any sword.  He winced.

"No, little burde, I could never hurt you."

"I know you to be a most honourable man; worthy of knighthood."

"I am no knight."  She would not think him very honourable if she knew how much he wanted her.  "A deserter, now."   

"What does it matter now anyway?  My father is dead. I don't know where my brother Robb is, nor my mother and sister.  I've not received a message by raven from Bran, Rickon and Maester Luwin in ages. Even Lady is gone; taken so cruelly.  She quickly searched among her things, found the handkerchief that he had first given her to stanch the bleeding of her lip when King Joffrey had ordered one of his guards to strike her, to return to him.

"Here, keep this with you,"   she said.  "And this should help you some along your way."  She then gave to him as many gold dragon coins as she could without drawing suspicion.   The soldiers would only take them anyway.   

"When the time is right," she told him, squeezing both his hands in her hands.  "I'll send word."

"My lady...."

"Be safe."

He would stay with her until the siege was over.

 


	2. The Four Winds

Days had turned to weeks, then months until nearly a year had passed.  It had been difficult to be patient; but it would not have done for her to have left at the same time as Sandor.  The fewer who knew about their plans the better.  Now she understood.  Ser Ilyn Payne at King's Landing, and the Hound had been there then too, to intervene. Then, during the Battle of the Blackwater, her handmaiden had warned her about Ser Ilyn, there again. She trembled.  As the eldest daughter and an heir to Winterfell, she could be killed just as surely as her father, brother and mother had been. The Lannisters planned to kill her.

She wondered why Cersei had kept giving her wine, taunting her in a cat-and-mouse sort of game.  It was how King Robert had died.  Or had she truly only meant to offer the benefit of her experience and give wise counsel, in a moment of drunken truthfulness?  In either case, the effect was the same; it frightened her.  Like a fearsome, terrible mother.  _Don't let what happened to me happen to you; fly away, little dove._   And there was Ser Sandor again, who'd always been honest and true.  She paced in her room; her thoughts racing.  Stupid girl.  How could she have been so foolish; all of her silly dreams of princes and castles and courtly dances.  Her father had told her that there would be someone brave, gentle and strong for her.  Sandor teased her that he was going to leave for Braavos, become a sellsword, and marry a Braavosi woman and father ten children with her at least, instead of waiting for a silly little bird like her.  She frowned; the thought piqued her.

She'd leave at first light when the groom would have her horse ready.  It was something she did most days, nothing unusual.  She'd have the entire day as a good head start.  In her riding clothes and wrapping her cloak around her shoulders, she pulled up the hood to cover her hair. She had told the groom that she was going out for a ride, and once she reached the Red Keep gate and then the outskirts of Kings Landing, she just kept on going, faster, her heart pounding, not stopping until she arrived to the edge of the Kingswood.  Sandor would know every abandoned barn and cave in the countryside from here to the Vale, and her mother's people were in the Riverlands; her great-uncle Brynden the Blackfish.   She could no longer find refuge at the Eyrie. The route through the Vale was too mountainous and held the danger of warring clans; and she no longer trusted her Aunt Lysa under Lord Petyr Baelish's influence.  Also, they would avoid the Twins bridge entirely; and travel along the Blackwater Rush and through the Neck.   It would be a long and difficult route, but it would be much more difficult for any who would surely follow her.   The thought of their retinues breaking down and getting mired in the muck, and with its hidden serpents and lizard-lions, gave her heart.  And she couldn't bear to have anything more to do with the Freys, much less pay them any fee for a crossing.   She'd sooner slog through the mud.  She owed this to her father, mother and brother.   But someday, she knew, she might be called upon to rule fairly and impartially.

She instead would have to impose upon the good will of and plead for the help of her family's oldest and most loyal ally, and sadly, too long forgotten - the Crannogmen, and Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch.  And there was no love lost between them and the horrid Boltons either.  Her heart suddenly felt alight.   She and her brothers and sister, and Wylis and Theon Greyjoy too,  would visit and explore a little of these wild marshes and brackish estuaries as young children, before her tutor Septa Mordane encouraged her to take up more ladylike pursuits, such as her needlework, which she also enjoyed and excelled at; but it would still be a formidable obstacle for her.    Once she reached Riverrun, she could stop and rest for a few days, change clothes, and send her messages - a raven each to Sandor and Lord Reed - and get a fresh horse to continue on her journey and so that her own horse could rest.   She would not send a message to Winterfell until she knew more of the situation there.   They may have taken Lady, but they would never get her horse, or anything else Stark, ever again.

She looked out the window, across the Riverlands, where the rivers joined.  In a flutter of wings, a raven alighted on the stone sill, and she began to write.

 

* * *

 

"My Lord Reed."  she said, exhausted, when she finally arrived.   Her cloak was splashed with mud and silt, her boots and the hem of her skirt were covered in it.   They had been expecting her, and some of Lord Reed's men had been sent to escort her, arriving on silent, flat-bottomed push pole boats, to Greywater Watch, with their best archers positioned along either side of the causeway, the part of the Kingsroad that passed through the Neck, hidden up in the trees and hanging mosses, the most vulnerable point on the route.  The Crannogpeople were known to use poison-tipped arrows.  Sandor had been with them, and she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck when she saw him.  _My sweeting_ , he whispered to her, as he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her cheek, and she held him tightly.   He lifted her gently into one of the boats. 

"My dear, forgive me if I appear to stare." the now much older Lord Howland Reed said.   "It's just that you are the image of your mother.  And I can see your father in you too."   he smiled.  "Of course I will help you.  I'm an old man now.  At my age, what more can the Lannisters do to me.  Come in, please.  And welcome.  Once you've had a chance to freshen up and rest, you should have some tea.  We'll have supper later this evening."

She had vivid memories of the good food. "Frogmire stew?" she asked.

Lord Reed smiled again and nodded. "Yes, my lady, it 'tis."  Contrary to belief, frogmire stew was not made with frogs, but with crayfish and other shellfish, whatever finfish and vegetables were in season, and wild rice in a wonderful broth.  She realized she was half-famished.

He invited her in, after asking his grandchildren to help bring their weary horses to the stables.   A maid, one of the river Naia of House Fenn, brought what little Sansa had been able to carry with her across a rough-timbered pier to the large, thatched-roof crannog moored on the loch, surrounded by a palisade and gently floating among the winterbloom, blue water iris and pale water lilies, dragon and damselflies of every colour; they had called them sewing needles as children.  Stands of sword-leaved Phragmites reeds and cattails, alder and willow leaning in from the banks.  Inside, a peat fire burned brightly in a clay pit in the center of a great room more expansive than it would first appear from the outside; the ceilings were high with exposed timbers, and there were beautifully woven wall hangings and rugs on the stone floors, some depicting ancient battles and tales of the Old Gods, and plaid blankets.   She closed her eyes, felt the sting of tears; she could hear the sound of the water lapping up against the pier, and the trill of the redwing blackbirds.  It was a place whose beauty was vastly underestimated.

"The North remembers, child." he said.   Lord Reed's men began to untie the mooring lines, and the crannog began to slowly move away from shore.

She didn't know if she was ready to be queen, and the thought of it frightened her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration: the beautiful 'House Baratheon' theme - Ramin Djwadi, 'Blow Northerne Wynd' - Helium Vola, 'Scarborough Faire' - Joel Frederiksen from The Elfin Knight.


	3. Between the Saut Sea and the Strand

Sansa closed her eyes and relaxed in her luxurious bath, the water scented with water lilies.   A rivermaid, Eleiona, helped her wash and then braid her damp hair; later, when the braids were undone, except for at the crown, her hair would fall in soft waves.  The river maids were sometimes enlisted to waylay and confuse the unwary in the marshes who might follow the sound of their sweet laughter and be misled; it was like hearing the throwing voices of birds.  They were known in the Riverlands as well.  Her twin brother, Eleio, was a river steward.

Flax linen towels and a change of clothes for supper had been laid out, the traditional attire of the Crannogpeople for the warmer years, as it was late summer - the long, linen and golden threaded wild silk dress with fine embroidery trim of blue flax flowers and river pearls at the surplice-tied neckline, at the sleeves that draped at the wrists, and hem; and a heavier woven belt of hemp with a bronze metal ring buckle in the stylized design of the lizard-lion sigil to be tied at the waist or hip, and leather boots.   This was the more formal attire, for a festive occasion, and more elaborate for the nobility.  For daily wear, the women's clothes were akin to the men's, suited to the rugged environment and for riding - the linen sark shirt, dyed woad blue or olive weld green; long tunic and trousers or leggings left to their natural flax hue or dyed, all of such fine construction as to appear seamless.   In winter, garments of wool and lined or trimmed with furs would be added, such as hooded cloaks and warm, leather gauntlets and legwrappings.

 

* * *

 There came a light knock.

"Yes?"

Another maid entered and brought with her a tray with an earthenware pot of elderflower tea with honey, and with butter shortbreads and cloudberry cream as well. 

"For you, my lady, from Lord Reed."  

"Thank you, Mélesine."  Sansa said as the maid poured the tea, but there were two cups.   "In case you wish the Ser to join you." she said, and then left the room.  Sansa did; and she felt her face grow hot and her cheeks colour a little to think that someone else might know her thoughts.  Sansa smiled; Sandor would probably just growl and grouse and prefer wine or ale, and there would be plenty of that for celebrating later in the evening. 

She is a woman like any other.  She remembered when she had first come to King's Landing, hearing about what she now knew was Lord Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish's brothel; and the women there in the sunny courtyard, laughing and talking amongst themselves in their colorful, summery silks.  She had been curious about what went on there, wondering and nervously giggling behind her hands along with some of the other young ladies of the court with whom she had become acquainted.

Sansa sipped her tea.   Traveling in disguise and without the shield of her privileged social position, she now knew what it was like to have gone hungry and cold, to be faced with having to pay high fees for things she needed when she had little money to pay for them.  It would hold her in good stead, she thought, if she ever were to be queen, to have experienced these things.   _Let Bran or Jon or even little Rickon be king_ , she decided, she had dreamt that they and Arya were all safe, wherever they were, if she could only find them.  Lord Reed had sent his two youngest children out after them, and it was said that his youngest son, Jojen, had the gift of greensight.  She didn't know how she could be so sure of this; _it must be the influence of this beautiful, enchanted place_ , she thought, and she only wanted to be as peaceful and happy as she felt right now. 

 

* * *

 

Sandor relaxed in the water of the hot spring; every ache in his muscles and bones, and every care, seemed to dissolve.   He ducked his head under the water for a few moments to wash his hair, then came back up to the surface, pushing the water from his face and his hair back with his hands.   The river stewards and maids had left woven linen towels for him to dry off with, and a change of clothes, taking away his battered armour and underclothes.   He thought how much Sansa had changed since he had first met her at Winterfell - the spoilt, sulky, and dream-headed girl from the North had grown into a lovely and independent young woman of nineteen, or well-nigh to it, if he remembered her name day.   She had always been a tenderhearted girl, and fragile, or so he had once thought; and with all the harshness life had shown her at her young age, he hoped that she was able to still keep that sweetness about her.  The harshness life had shown to both of them.

He dressed, thinking of how much he wanted to see her.  She had made the trip all that way through the Neck herself; they would make the trip back to Winterfell again together.   Soon would be the time; while the days and nights were still warm and before winter came.


	4. Vision

Sandor Clegane stared into the fire pit.  Controlled, there was nothing to fear from it; it was beneficial, for cooking his food, to warm him, to draw strength from.   It would not consume him.   Out of control was the danger. 

For the lavish supper, which was more of a banquet, in addition to the frogmire stew, there was venison roasted on the spit, done to a perfect turn; wild vegetables, the delicacy frogs' legs, rustic breads and cheeses, sambocade and sweet cakes for dessert, wine and ale.   All of it was from the unique and bountiful harvests the Marsh Lords were known for, a portion of which had always been pledged in ardent fealty to Winterfell and the Kings of the North for thousands of years. A salt cellar had been placed at the center of the high table.  There was music, played on lute and lyre and tambour, from the musicians' gallery. Even as an honoured guest, his eyes still scanned the room for signs of danger and anything out of the ordinary; second-nature to him and an old warrior's habit, even for one as disillusioned as he. The Crannogpeople were happy for the occasion to celebrate, she was their future queen, perhaps.  The people of the North wanted their autonomy, and their former kingdom restored.  He was now one of the Brotherhood without Banners, who would bend the knee to none.  When she came down to the hall accompanied by Lord Reed, he saw her, and he stood and kissed her hand, and she sat near him.  The soft light of the fire shone in her coppery hair.  Sansa smiled at him and enjoyed her sparkling elderflower wine. 

He had spent the night of the Blackwater in her arms, but that was all; left at dawn while the city still smouldered, with the washed clean handkerchief she returned to him that still smelled of her perfume.   He had given enough of himself to lords and kings, and he would give no more.  He never spent any of the gold coins, her money, fearing that it might betray their whereabouts.  For most of his life, he had been surrounded by Lannister gold. He still had them hidden away in case they might need them.   But he never thought he'd see her again, or that she would ever really come to him.  The next night, half drunk in a tavern, he'd fucked a woman he met there who should have been her. 

She'd escaped being under the tether, like a little red falcon-gentle, the bird of princes, of the cruel boy king Joffrey; but then his heart crashed once more when he'd learned she'd been bartered off again in a betrothal to the Imp.  But she had come to him.


	5. Hold Fast

The night of the Blackwater, he had demanded that she sing a song to him, his voice hoarse, after he had told her how his face had been ruined, and by his own brother; how in that instant, the course of his life had been predetermined, and then he threatened to kill her if she repeated what he told her to anyone. _Some bawdy tavern song_ , she wondered, or the songs women sang to other men, songs that he felt were denied to him. She didn't know any of those songs. She had had a little too much wine herself, with Cersei. She nervously started to sing the hymn that she had sung earlier with the other women, until she relaxed a little. He seemed to calm afterwards; remorseful.

"I never betray a confidence." she reassured him, _never_ , and then he realized that she would not hurt him either. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, nobody had ever kissed her, well maybe Joffrey but that wasn't much of one, wasn't a real kiss. But he never did. She wished he had. Instead, they had stayed together, their arms round each other, then lying back on her bed together, both dozing a little until he quietly left in the early morning.

 

* * *

 

She is a woman grown now, long since flowered and no longer a child, able to bear a child of her own. At the floating crannog, after she'd drunk her tea, she'd fallen asleep in her underdress in the flax sheets and damask pillows, and dreamed of being with him in the Godswood at Winterfell, kneeling before the heart tree and receiving blessing, and them binding their wrists together with ribbon and strips of plaid cloth, his smoke and battle-bloodied Kingsguard cloak that she had kept from that night wrapped round her shoulders, and what it would be like to kiss him.

He is beautiful to her, in his way, and she noticed that his eyes could be soft and gentle, as well as full of strength and fire. His cruel mouth that would sneer at her and everything she stood for, is not cruel in those rare times she's seen him smile with such light and warmth, and when he finally does kiss her, and he is someone who will love her and never lie to her or hurt her; and she wondered what it was she could have ever wanted about someone like Joffrey.

"You look tired, my dear," Lady Jyana Reed said, as the celebration was winding down. "Would you like for someone to take you back to the crannog to rest?"

"Yes." Sansa answered.   She asked for him; and Sandor Clegane accompanied her.

And when they reach her door, he kisses her.  His eyes are soft as velvet.  Their kisses become deeper, and then his mouth moves to her neck and shoulders, gently moving her dress away to her bare skin; and it is a good thing his arms are around her to hold her up, because she feels like her legs will give out from under her, like everything she'd ever read in poetry or heard in song, or ever dreamt it would be, and even more, and as he promised her it would be. He bends down and begins to caress and kiss her breasts through the fabric of her dress. Her nipples rise to his touch. His hands reach under her skirts, entering her with a finger, and then he finds the pleasure spot she didn't even know she had. As the feeling begins to build, her breath hitches into short gasps, and she feels as if she is about to fall over the edge of a cliff, until she cries out in pleasure, her hands gripping his shoulders as he embraces her round her waist, saying her name.

The Crannogpeople believed differently about these things. A maiden's passage to womanhood was to be celebrated, her ability to give and nurture life, and the wisdom of the crone revered. A person also might find love with someone of their own gender. There was no shame in love or being lovers, as her handmaiden had discreetly reminded her when she brought the tea.  She asks him to stay.   He pulls her tightly to him, and kissing her eagerly, follows her to the bed.   When he unlaces his breeches, he is erect; hard and silky as she touches him.  They slip under the coverlet together, and she pulls him to her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.  When he enters her gently, she only feels a slight, sharp pinch, and later only a tiny droplet of blood.  She draws up her knees so that he can penetrate her more deeply, and he begins to thrust gently, pushing deep inside her, his lips against her neck, his rhythmic, pleasured breaths coming faster.  She closes her eyes, as he softly cries out, and she feels a sweet sadness.

* * *

 Lying in his arms and with her head resting upon his chest, and as much as she wants to return home, she says:

"I wish we didn't have to leave just yet." She kisses his chest; her fingers tracing the hair there.

He brushes some strands of her hair away from her eyes.  He wishes they could stay on as well.

"You've not had to fend for yourself much, luve.  We'll have to go before the snow and cold winds come." He takes her hand and kisses it.

"Well, I think I've done all right so far, haven't I?" she says, smiling, in a teasing challenge to him.

"Aye, you have."

She laughs, thinking about how she could scarcely build a fire on her way to Riverrun; and the scant little food she'd been able to take with her to eat.

"Funny, is it now." He laughs too, and pulls her closer to him, kissing her.

Then there was the matter of her betrothal to Tyrion Lannister, which she explained to Sandor.   Lord Tyrion is very kind and extremely clever - but he has no more interest in a union than she does.

"I've seen the way you look at Clegane, and how he looks at you. I've seen how you are when you are together." she remembered Lord Tyrion telling her. "I know you love him. You'll get no resistance from me; and I'll not stand in your way."

Once she returned to Winterfell with Sandor, that would be the end of it.

* * *

 

By the time evening falls the next day, they are in bed and naked again, skin to skin. This time she is astride him, her knees on either side of his hips, and she guides him inside her. She leans forward and kisses him, and his hands cup her breasts, kissing and caressing them, her hair falling over him. This is when he's told her that her hair is most beautiful, when she is naked. She moves up and down on him, circles her hips, holding on to his shoulders. His hands nearly span her waist as he holds her there, then his hands move down over the flare of her hips.


	6. The Sweetest Thing There Is

Bittersweetly, the time came for them to leave. Though still warm, the days were becoming shorter and leaves were beginning to turn.

"Have you news of Winterfell?" she asked, anxious to hear the report from Lord Reed's scouts.

"The young lord Brandon Stark and Maester Luwin are managing quite well; and they have been advised that you are returning home under escort of Sandor Clegane."

 _Thank the Gods._   Sansa was overjoyed.  Her family's association with the Lannisters and coming to Kings Landing had brought nothing but bad luck; Bran's fall, Lady's killing, her father dishonored and executed. Joffrey would make sport of her for his own amusement, and to demonstrate what he thought of as power - keeping her on edge, humiliating her and having her beaten by his guards at whim. Nothing but bad luck, with only one exception that she could be grateful for. She should have pushed Joffrey off the bridge on the Traitor's Walk on that awful day, she should have, and would gladly have paid the price for it.  If Sandor had not stood immovable in her way, refusing to stand aside, she might have. And after Lady's killing and her father's death, it seemed she had lost any of the fight she had left in her.  She had not been angry with him for holding her back, just made aware of his great strength, which on a certain level, was a comfort to her.   She remembered back to when she first saw him as a young girl, as part of King Robert's retinue to Winterfell, the Hound riding side-by-side with the golden Joffrey, juxtaposed; _like a vision of the future_ , she thought now.  How differently things had turned out since then.

"Your father was a good and decent man; one of the few in this world." he whispered reassurances to her as she had cried against his armoured chest.

She'd always been drawn to him, admiring his prowess in the tournaments and secretly hoping he would win; but she thought it was then that she started to feel a true affection for him.

 

* * *

 

And after many embraces and tears and the exchanging of gifts, Sansa was delighted to find that Sandor and Lord Reed had arranged for her horse to be brought back to her from Riverrun, her beautiful dark-maned, dapple grey palfrey mare Tildy.  As much food as they could carry had been prepared to take with them.

"I shall never marry," Sansa told him.  "If we cannot."   He'd become so inured and toughened to the harshness in life that he hadn't allowed himself to see the good in it, and he would love her for the rest of his days.

Her maiden's gift, given to him freely, left a small bloodstain that was the color of a petal of the dark red roses she kept to dry in a crystal bowl to duskily scent her bedchamber. 

"You will love Winterfell, the glass garden, Winter Town at Yuletime," Sansa enthused about her home as they rode beside each other, she on her palfrey horse, and Sandor smiled at her, if a bit sadly.  He had allowed himself the moment's fancy that they might marry one day.  Yes, she was beautiful, with her pale green eyes and long red hair and pink lips, the shape of her face and the pretty upturn of her chin, tall for a woman and long-legged; to him, one of the most beautiful in all of the Seven Kingdoms.   But he'd seen many beautiful women, and it wasn't like he'd never known the pleasures of a few.  When he had gone to her that night, a part of him had wanted to have her then.  But he could not hurt her in any way.  He had to admit, if he were honest, that it made him bitter to think of the little bride's wedding night with Prince Joffrey, or Lord Tyrion, or anyone who could not appreciate or love her as he did, and when he caught her on the serpentine turret stairs, he had spoken too roughly to her, grabbing her by the wrist, had frightened her and made her cry, for which he was now endlessly sorry.  He had taken her by the shoulders, demanding that she look at him.  To take a good look - without polite avoidance or averted glances, or pity.   _Stop your crying, girl!_ he'd wanted to yell at her then; the sooner she accepted the true ways of the world the better off she would be.  

"Forgive me for going on so about Winterfell, it's just that I've missed it so."  she said.   "What will you do about Clegane's Keep?  Do you miss it?"

"Gregor can have it."  he growled.  "It was never a home to me." 

 

* * *

Golden Company

He had been educated and groomed for knighthood from an early age, age seven, the year after he had been so horribly burned; when his father had died and Tywin Lannister took the two Clegane sons in as wards, and like Gregor before him, continuing the tradition in reward for their grandfather's loyal service.  Of course Lord Tywin had seen to it that he received the best possible medical care.   He hadn't known his mother, and had only a vague recollection of a younger sister.  Growing up at Casterly Rock, there was a time he didn't think it possible that there could ever have been a more beautiful girl and young woman than Cersei Lannister, nor more willful, nor more exciting, although he was not completely blind to her nature; and he and her twin brother Jaime, who was as beautiful as his sister, studied for knighthood together.  It seemed to him that they were young lions both.  Sandor had served as a page and then a squire; and at grammar school at fourteen, he was tutored in Latin (at peril of the birch, he remembered with a chuckle), learned humility, chivalry and an appreciation for music and the arts as well as battle skills.  He enjoyed taking part in the tournaments and melees; found he was quite good at it, even making some decent money at it.At twenty-one, he had been ready to take his knight's vows.  

When Lord Tywin suddenly sent Cersei away; rumours flew.  He ofttimes found a confidant in Lord Tyrion, and even young Joff trusted and looked up to him, in his way, appointing him as his sworn sword and personal bodyguard.   A good and loyal dog.  He thought of Lord Tyrion's words, _if they want to give you a name, take it and make it your own._ And if people had come to fear him, it kept them at bay, which is what he had wanted.  Gregor and he were embraced as family, and they had been, mostly, good to him.  

And there lay the roots of his loyalty to House Lannister; but he had refused to take the final Oath and Vows of knighthood because he no longer believed in it.

It was quiet as they rode, except for the dull thud of hooves on the dirt road as the horses walked, and the occasional sweet, brook-like sound of the wood thrush song deep in the forest.

As the time passed between them and to fill the quiet, he idly began to hum a tune, an old folk ballad, and then, softly, began to sing the words.

"I didn't know you could sing," Sansa said.  "You have a nice singing voice".  He only chuckled.

Sandor's destrier Stranger was a much bigger and stronger horse, so they would ride together for awhile sometimes, for short amounts of time so as not to tire him, with Sansa riding pillion behind Sandor and holding on tightly round his waist, after Lord Reed's men had left them, and Sansa's horse and a pack-horse would carry what they took with them.

They'd stopped to rest near a grassy field, picketed the horses and let them browse, and spread out a blanket under an oak tree; and he made love to her, and she threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed his face, in the joy of his pleasure as well as her own.

She'd already flowered for this moontime, after some worry, and they would have to be more cautious with their lovemaking in the future.  People could choose not to see many things; but it would be difficult to ignore a baby.   Bran would only want his sister to be happy; and Maester Luwin's discretion had been relied upon for years.   He had helped bring her into this world.

 

* * *

 

They eventually came to an old abandoned farmhouse and barn, with a rooftop cupola and wind vane in the shape of a lightning bolt. In disrepair now, it looked to have been part of a fine estate at one time. Thick vegetation had grown up all around it, and vines with stems as thick around as ropes, but it gave the place an enchanted appearance, and a sense of protection. The farm had chickens that had been left to feral long ago; she could hear them distantly, roosting up in the trees for the evening.  They might have eggs for breakfast.

Inside, there was just a long oak table with bench seating, a dusty candlebeam overhead for light, a crude fireplace, straw for bedding.   

"No featherbed or fine linens, I'm afraid, my lady." Sandor said. "But we won't be here long, a night or two.  We'll see you back safe at Winterfell before long." 

But it was fine.   There would be chests and wardrobes full of lavender-scented linens once they returned to Winterfell.

"What say you now, my Ser," she whispered to him, taking his arm and kissing his scarred cheek, "about the sweetest thing there is."   She remembered the rest of the words to the ballad he had sung from earlier, from _The Maiden of the Tree_ , and spoke them:

 _"I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves,_ _and bind my hair with grass,_  
  _And you can be my forest love,_ _and me your forest lass.”_

"I say I was mistaken, and am now put to right."  he smiled.  There was no more pleasure to be had in killing, if there truly ever really had been.

He had insisted that he accompany her right from the beginning, but Sansa had steadfastly refused, out of fear for his safety.  Sandor was not a man who would go easily unnoticed for long.  As soon as he'd heard she'd arrived at Riverrun, he sent a message, even before she sent hers.

She wondered if the Brotherhood stayed here. She knew about them, that Sandor had joined them, and that he now bowed to none. She wouldn't have him any other way than the man he was. He had the wolf's blood in him.

She asked him about the Brotherhood.  Sandor knew that Beric and the Brotherhood felt that they still owed a duty to her father, and one that after his death had remained unfulfilled.  And that they thought one way to honour this duty was to insure that Ned Stark's daughter was safely delivered home.

"Might see Beric from time to time." he said. "Thoros.  And the others.  And Anguy, no doubt the best archer in all of the Seven Kingdoms!" he said, almost with personal pride.  "They'll not harm you.  Noone will touch you or we'll kill them." he said.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa awoke to the smells of cooking.  She felt surprisingly rested; the simple straw bed surprisingly comfortable.  The experience is new for her; she wonders if that is why.  When she came down from the hayloft, Sandor was crouched on one knee before the fire, cooking and turning buttered eggs in a cast-iron posnet pan on the hearth, with butter from the larder, which he served to her with some of the bread they had brought with them, warmed and toasted in the fire, and hot tea.  He must have had gathered the eggs very early, and the fresh water that was boiling.  He stored the rest of them in the larder; Sandor said they should always leave some food in for whoever else might stay there after them.  There was stoneware crockery of potted meats, that had been stored deep in the cold ground to preserve them.  They probably would not see the Brotherhood during their short stay, he said; but at some point they might return.   

"Good morning," he said.  "Have something to eat, luve."   He had wanted to let her rest.

She had dusted off the table, and laid out the linen cloth that they had carried some of their food in the day before, after they had brought in their supplies.  She sipped her tea; it had the mild and pleasant aroma and flavour of lemons and mint.  _Lemon balm_.  She took a bite of toast.  The eggs were delicious.

"We should leave early today,"  he said, looking up at her over his shoulder for a moment as he worked.   "I'd like us to make a short side trip somewhere, while the weather is still warm."  It was a place he remembered from his only trip North; a place near to where King Robert's retinue had stopped to make camp.

He smiled shyly, and then with downcast eyes, surprising for a man usually so imposing as himself.    After sharing breakfast, they packed up their belongings and set out again on their journey.

 

* * *

 

"Did you want me as much as I wanted you?"  she had asked him one day, referring to the night of the Blackwater.  The thought of his kiss that night had seemed so real to her then that she could feel it, as if it had actually occurred, like a memory; and all the times she thought of him thereafter. 

"Want you? Of course I wanted you," he said, almost in disbelief. "That night.  Yes, my sweet little bird." he whispered.  "How could you not know it."  He softly chuckled.

She was completely free of affectation in her desire and affections for him, and she had chosen him to be the happy recipient of her affections.  What could possibly be better than that, or match it.  All the bare-arsed women from one brothel to the next, for every man's desire, could not stir him as she did.  And eventually none did.  He wanted a lover, a wife, of his own.

At the crannog, when she untied the top of her dress, uncovering her breasts to him; delicate, the nipples and area surrounding them rosy and pink.  And at the edge of the bed, as she undressed, lifting her skirts, the soft skin above her knees as she untied the pale blue satin ribbon garters that held her stockings up, framing her sweet red-headed cunt that he had wanted to taste.

There were times when he had been painfully aware of the closeness of her.  Leaning against his back with her arms around his waist and holding on tightly to him as they rode, her hands so near to his belt, every motion, every sway of the ride - that he thought his balls would burst if he didn't stop and have her right there.  To have each other.  And sometimes, they did.  But mostly, they kept on, on to their destination.

"But we are not exactly of the same station, you and I, in case you have forgotten." 

 

* * *

 

He had never acted upon any desire he may have had for her that night.  Sansa knew that any overtures would have had to have come from her.  He was honest.  Even if she didn't always like or want to hear what he had to say, or how he said it, he had proven himself worthy of trust, even if he did not yet realize he had. 

"Must you always speak in that way?"  she asked him, annoyed, after overhearing a barrage of his curses, one time of many when she first came to Kings Landing, and after everything had descended into chaos.

"And what way is that, Little Bird."  he said, amused.

"Foul-mouthed?  Hateful and cynical and mean?  I'm surprised Joffrey hasn't had your tongue out by now."

She didn't think she had ever heard him laugh harder than he did right then. 

"The little bird has her feathers ruffled, has she."

But despite all that, she hadn't ever seen him display a truly discourteous action to anyone at court.

"My apologies if I have offended thee, my lady."  He bowed low, making a show of it.  He did not seem at all sincere.

"Well you say you have no use for knights and knightly courtesies, but I don't believe you.  Your bark is worse than your bite I think, Hound."  

He chuckled.   "Go on now Little Bird, back to your gilded cage."  His rough voice had become quieter, with almost a kind of patience about it.

And she turned her face away, her cheeks flushed.   Walked away, so that he could not see how he had vexed her so.

 

* * *

 

Should she ever become Queen, if she should ever choose her Hand and advisor, she did not want a subservient lap pet or fawning, obsequious courtier.  Or for a husband.  She wanted someone to challenge her, stand up to her if she were wrong, show her a different point of view, keep her from the treachery around her.   He had valuable experience, in the military, and appointed by Joffrey to the elite King's Guard, this all the more remarkable because he had not been formally knighted, had refused it.  He had been also appointed by Joffrey to banneret, to lead his own company of troops under his own banner, the Clegane banner, in the field.  He had earned the trust and confidence of the Lannisters; including the Lioness Cersei herself, so much so that she had entrusted him with the life of her own son.  He had returned the gold dragon coins Sansa had given him, although she had given them to him in all sincerity.

Making love to him had been the most natural thing in the world, after those first, initial kisses; and as she followed her heart and senses, and followed his lead.  To avoid the worry of getting her pregnant too soon, he had withdrawn from her, still slick with her, and spilled his seed in a silken pool in the slightly concave hollow of her belly, silken under her fingers; and she found his body wondrously erotic.

She knew he was not a bad man, in his heart, but a troubled man, and the reason for it. Later, after he had left her the night of the Blackwater, she had gone to the sept, lit a votive candle and said a prayer to the Mother for him, to protect him and to soothe the pain that burned in him.  He would have scoffed at that, had he known. He didn't know either that Lord Petyr Baelish had already told her about what his brother had done to him; and that Petyr Baelish knew the secrets of just about everyone.

 

* * *

 

They took a turn on the road that lead to an overlook, to a beach, a sliver of land nearly surrounded by roaring surf. The waters of the North were dark blue and rocky and deep, and only saw the warm and sandy-shoaled emerald green of the Kings Landing coast for a short time.  It was still beautiful, in its own way, and sparkled in the sun.  She closed her eyes, turning her face to the cool sea mist and the sound of the waves; inhaled deeply the smell of the clean salt air.

"I don't think I ever thanked you properly, for all you have done for me." she told him. "Joffrey, my father....helping me to return home."

From atop their horses, she reached out and touched his arm.


	8. Florian

"I don't think I ever thanked you properly, for all you have done for me." she told him. "Joffrey, my father....that awful mob.  And helping me to return home."

"No need."  he muttered.   _Those men would have had her six ways to Sunday, he knew, and likely tried to ransom and kill her._    _And he couldn't tell her that Joffrey, the young man had she once felt so hopeful about, had not even cared, had turned tail and fled, more interested in saving his own arse, something even his own uncle, Lord Tyrion, had witnessed him do._

"Well, thank you."  she said.  "And for breakfast."

She laughed.  He hasn't heard her laugh much since King's Landing, since what had happened to her family.  It feels like hearing a song again.

Sansa climbed down from her horse.    "Come," she said, with so much love for him, and taking his hand.  "Come for a walk in the sand with me." 

_I shall never marry, if we cannot._

Sandor only smiled grimly, thinking of her words.   This is what she thinks now, maybe even truly means it, but someday she would meet the man she would marry.   If so, he hoped she would look back on this time of her life with fondness and affection, as he certainly would.  He felt foolish, unmoored, unaccustomed to the part of romantic fool.   It was so much easier to rage and fight.  Being with a companion was something he was not much used to, much less a woman companion; someone nattering on as she had been about bloody Winterfell usually would have driven him to the Seven Hells, but it was different now, with her.   He enjoyed her company, and hearing about her beloved home.  He could picture it.

They began to unbridle and halter the horses, unsaddling them for the night, checking the condition of their legs and horseshoes, giving them water, and picketing them as they set up their encampment. 

"You're always so good with them, so kind."  Sansa said.

"Without them we are lost."  he'd told her, but it was true that he did have a soft place in his heart for beasts of burden and those at the mercy of others, although he was not wont to admit it.

"Remember, we can't stay long.  We'll have to leave soon."  He tried to reconcile his sense of duty with his feelings for her.

"Grumpy bear." she smiled and said.  She found even his grumpiness charming and sweet sometimes.  She took off her boots and stockings, and began to climb down the short embankment, holding on to the overhanging branches and tangle of exposed tree roots for support as she carefully made her way over the rocks.  

"Wait, then!" he called after her.

He decided he should hurry to join her in case something happened, if she should turn an ankle and fall, or if there were bandits nearby; steeled his mind for if she refused him again.  He had been waiting for the right time.  Doffing his coat and heavier shirt until he was just in his undertunic and trousers, quickly he took a blanket with him and something for them to eat, and followed her down the cliffside path to the beach.

 

* * *

 

They walked along the beach for awhile, Sansa lifting the hem of her skirts slightly so that she could put her toes in the surf, shielding her eyes with her hand from the sun's glare, and she spun halfway round, sprightly walking backwards in the wet sand for a few moments, radiant with the afternoon sun at her back, talking and laughing over the roar of the sea; and then they stopped to rest near the dunes, spreading out the blanket on the sand.   They could see the Sister Islands off on the horizon.  She helped him gather some beach stones and driftwood to make a small fire.  

He took a small box from his pocket.  He wasn't sure how to go about it. 

"My Lady Sansa," he finally said.  "Will you agree to be my wife.  Will you marry me." 

He opened the box and took out a gold ring, set with a beautiful pale gemstone.  He'd had it made by a goldsmith in Lannisport, after too much wine one night, on a drunken whim.  It was the stone he had taken with him into battles; the only thing of worth he thought he had.  On one of their walks together in the gardens and citrus groves at King's Landing, her hand gently at his elbow, he had wrapped a flower tendril around the ring finger of her right hand.   She thought he had only been teasing.   But he had kept it, and taken it to the goldsmith. 

"It's beautiful." she said as he placed it on her finger and kissed her hand.   It was a faceted aqua marina stone; clear, with just the slightest hint of blue-green.   Every time she looked at it, it seemed to change, like water, a little bit of the sea, hers forever, defying anything else that could happen to them.   She hoped there would be no more battlefields for him.

The small fire snapped and crackled; the flames sparked in colors of blue, green and violet from the saltwater-infused driftwood.   She sat hugging her knees in her bare feet, the hem of her blue dress sandy and watermarked from the walk.  The sea breeze gently blew strands of her hair about her lovely face, and she brushed them away with her hands.  He felt that the moment was achingly perfect; could not have been more so had it been planned.  He cut up some of the bread, cheese, and red autumn pears with his sgian dubh knife for them to eat.

She couldn't stop looking at the ring.   "It's so beautiful," she told him again.  A knight in battered armour, no, he had not been the man of her childish dreams; he was so much more.    

"Yes," she said, gently putting her arms around his neck and kissing him.  "I love you."   

"And I you."  he said.   She kissed him again.   They stayed at the beach until after sunset.

And the warrior priest Thoros of Myr married them, with Lord Beric escorting her to her husband in her father's stead, and Anguy the Archer as Sandor's best man, before a fire; she with a crown of late summer wildflowers in her hair and wearing her pale blue dress. 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

After ceremonial prayers and speaking their vows to each other, Sandor took her hand and they stepped over and through the ditchfire together to the opposite side, unscathed, and he gently removed her maiden's cloak and wrapped the bride's cloak round her shoulders.

"And the two shall become one light."  Thoros declared, and pronounced them married as they kissed, amidst the clapping and cheers of congratulations and well-wishes from the Brotherhood, until they would discreetly be on their way.  Lord Beric and Anguy shook Sandor's hand and embraced them both.

 

* * *

  

Sandor thought of religion the way he thought of knighthood, Sansa thought - a disillusionment that couldn't quite extinguish a small ember of hope beneath it.

"Bollocks to that." 

Religion was too authoritative and condemning, and self-serving, he'd said.   Thoros and Beric and the Brotherhood followed a different, more benevolent sect of the Lord of Light.

"Leave my transgressions between me and the Gods, if they bloody exist, and I'll answer to them - not to men."

Sansa believed because the alternative, a world with nothing beyond the realm of humankind, was just too terrible to contemplate.  But the Lord of Light was the only one where Sandor had seen some kind of proof - the visions in the flames, and the resurrection of Beric, giving him pause for thought.   There was something almost a poetic about it, he'd said, with his own baptism by fire, a trial by fire, even redemption.

 

* * *

 

When they would return to Winterfell and announce their marriage, they would ask the blessing of the Old Gods in the Weirwood grove as well, and there would be a reception feast given in their honour.  She wondered what the Northern Lords would make of it.  She and Sandor would one day have a family, the sons and daughters of the North, is how they would see it. They would say that a Stark belonged in the North, beholden to none but those of her home, not swallowed up by another kingdom, and bearing their sons and daughters; that is, if Lord Reed was any indication.   _Especially since half of her family had been murdered_ , she thought, still with the taste of bitterness and grief.  There would be nothing to gain by any outside alliances, to them, and so they had no stake in any.   Or perhaps some would have preferred a match with one of the noble families of the North, to unite their houses - and kill them both. 

Lord Robett Glover; and Lord Jon 'the Greatjon' Umber, who was of a nature so sour and ready to fight that he pissed vinegar, as she had overheard her father say of him.  And the young Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island; named for Sansa's own aunt.  All fiercely loyal to the North.  Then there were the Boltons.   The father with a very dignified bearing, but dreadful, and whom her own father never had trusted; the bastard son even worse, and with none of his father's veneer of composed elegance.  She was glad that her father had outlawed their barbaric tradition of flaying their enemies; but it was rumoured that they still practiced it.   Too dangerous a man, Lord Bolton ought to have been banished north of the Wall and left to wander snowblind for his crimes and part in the betrayal of her family.  How his trueborn son Domeric could have turned out so differently she did not understand.

She wished her mother was still here.  She may not have approved of what she would have considered a too-hasty decision by her daughter - but Sansa would have assured her that whatever happened, and who knew, she had known happiness, and Sansa had learned that happiness could be an elusive, fleeting thing in this world.   She would talk with her in the Godswood, and to her father.  When she would look into the mirror at the dressing table of the bower in her chambers at King's Landing, she would sometimes wonder who she was.  Now she remembered.   She had also been a captive of what she thought she had wanted.

Sandor, although once loyal to House Lannister, had defended and protected her, and had brought her back to them. He was a fine and valiant warrior, and all of this would be lauded by them.  She wondered if he would ever swear fealty to the North and finally accept being knighted, or the North's equivalent of it, an honour he deserved.  She'd only ever seen him bend the knee once, and that was for King Robert, at the Hand's tournament - and that meant he must have respected the King greatly.  _It was not only for King Robert, it was for you and your father too,_ he later told her.  She was glad that she had stood and applauded him, as all the crowd cheered.  Her champion.   It was also one of the few happy memories she had of her father at King's Landing, watching the tournament with him, sweetly escorted on his arm.

But to her, they were equals.  She would never demand it of him.   She smiled, wondering what Sandor would make of it all as well.


	10. The Ravenswood

He thought they might stay at an inn and have a good meal, and he wanted to make love to his wife in a proper bed.   And what he wouldn't give for some ale or wine!  But would they be recognized - his scarred face, and her ginger hair would not go unnoticed.  He wanted someplace where he wouldn't have to worry about their being robbed or the horses stolen, and he was tired of hiding.    

Anguy had told him about a Faith septry before the city of White Harbour - there was an inn on their lands there, the Vin and Oak Tavern, and it was quiet.  There was good wine and ale, cheeses and good, if simple, food.   The brothers there ran a small farm with an apple orchard and beehives, and vineyards; they made wine, cider and apple brandy.  There was an infirmary, and a stable and farrier for the horses.  The brothers took vows of silence, except for times of prayer, and celibacy, and would keep to their own business.  Anguy and the Brotherhood would ride up ahead of them and inquire. 

They were getting deeper into the Northlands now, nearer to Winterfell; so it could be safe if they were to be recognized.  Once they reached Castle Cerwyn, Stark bannermen, it would only be a half day's ride to Winterfell, Sansa told him.  He sighed in relief.   Of course, she knew the North better than he.  Where he had the use of a fold-worn map and the memory of one visit to guide him; she had the experience of it, the sense of it.  But it would be unwise to let their guard down now.   They had come too far to have it all buggered now, to all come to naught. 

Sansa spoke of her uncle Benjen Stark.  She was doing her best, without much complaint, but she was obviously becoming weary, and so was he.   He understood it must be difficult for her, bathing and having to wash her clothes in the streams and creeks; cooking meals.  When their store of dried and salted meats grew low, Sandor had to hunt, and he was not always successful.  He leaves her a knife for protection for the times he is away.  When he would return with a hare or small game bird or a fish, at first Sansa shrank back in fright.  But surpisingly, she did know how to forage a little, gathering things such as wild turnips and mustard greens; ramsons, berries and frost grapes.  

"Old Nan."  she said.

She told him that Old Nan had taught them all a little about it growing up; and what to be careful about, like stinging nettle.  Old Nan was the great-grandmother of the stable hand Hodor, she explained, who had been at Winterfell for so long that she seemed like the Starks' own great grandmother too.

The nights were colder now, and she huddled close to him for warmth; and he tried to keep her warm as best he could.   He began to worry that she might fall ill.  Perhaps it was just her woman's time.

At the threat of a rainstorm, he had taken the small ax out from one the saddlebags and built a quick, rough shelter for them out of saplings, fallen branches and scrub, and in his haste he bruised and cut his hands.   Sansa washed and dressed his wounds with strips of the linen cloth they had brought with them to carry food and belongings, and the simple, caring touch of another was something he had not known much of in his life either, and he closed his eyes and allowed himself to accept it, with a sense of great relief and thankfulness.  He admitted the truth of it.  It filled a longing in him that he hadn't fully acknowledged in himself, and he had not wanted to appear weak.

He would be thirty at his nameday, when a man reapt what he had sown all the previous year, he'd been told; long-lived by a soldier's standards, he knew.   And blessed, and heavy with weariness.  He'd seen young men cut down right out of their first charge of battle; some no more than mere boys.  She would be twenty.  He felt his eyes sting.

"I hope you know," he said, feeling the need to put things right, "that I would never have hurt you, that night."

"Yes, I know," she answered, for she knew the man he was, and the man he is now, the man he always was.  "And you should know that in my heart, I would have left with you right then, if I could have.  I wanted to." 

He hadn't known she felt that way then, and his heart is full, now that he does.

"My love."  

He takes her face in his hands and fiercely kisses her, and pulls her tightly close to him.   

"I should have."  She whispers to him between kisses, near tears, and then again.

 

* * *

 

They huddled together in the shelter, out of the wind and rain.   After the rain stopped, Sandor made a smoky fire out of wet and green wood, and the air was delicious with the fragrance of evergreen.

Looking back at it as they rode away days later, Sansa thought that the little lean-to looked magical, like the home of a woodland creature, as it seemed to disappear into the trees the farther away they moved from it. 

They continued on, riding together on Stranger for a short while; she sat in front, with her legs off to one side, her arms holding him close about his waist and leaning against his chest.  

At a bend in the road was the terrible sight of three men, hanged from a sturdy tree.    Sandor turned Sansa's face away.

"Bandits, could be."  he whispered to her.   They were left with neither shoes nor cloaks. 

"Won't need them now." 

Whoever they were, they did not deserve such a fate.   When it was safe, Sandor went back and cut them down, and covered them as best he could.

 

* * *

 

They then came upon a dead raven, its lifeless wings splayed out on the ground before them.    _Bran_ , she thought.  The sight of it worried and frightened her, but he told her there was nothing to fear.   But he couldn't help but be reminded that it was said the Starks had future sight.

"We'll stop and rest soon, Little Bird," he told her.   Her face brightened, but she tried not to show it as she looked up at him. 

"I fear we must both stink and need to bathe," she said, smiling up at him, and he chuckled and kissed the top of her head, drew his cloak closer around them.  They travelled for another mile marked by cairns of heaped stones, past meads and open fields.

Up ahead, the septry's estate was just coming into view, beyond a stand of coppery-leaved oak trees.  They could see the ocean beyond the sward of farmlands, smell it in the sweet air, the salt of the sea and the last, fall-cut hay.

They arrived before evening vespers, welcomed by the Elder Brother of the septry in his roughspun woolen robes, and were shown to a room in a private corner of the inn.  

 

* * *

  

In the darkened tavern, near the fire, he sat facing the entrance to watch who came and went, his Clymore greatsword by his side, and she sat across from him, so that her face would not be immediately seen.   They were the only two there, for the time being.  A candle flickered on the trestle-and-board table, next to the bread and salt.  She wondered if she should pull up her hood to cover her hair, but he said no, that he wanted to see her beauty.   He asked for a large tankard of ale to slake his thirst, and she a cup of honey wine, and they ate a warming Sister's Stew, this time made with chunks of monkfish tails that the local fishermen delivered to the septry that day, potatoes and leeks, with plenty of bread and butter to accompany it.  Smallfolk fare and damned good at that.  The septry's cook came to their table, and they told him how delicious everything was; he had baked an apple cake for dessert, made with the septry's own apple brandy and cream, to fête their newly-wedded travelers, and they shared a slice each, feeding each other.   A toast was made to the bride and groom.  Another night they had roasted chicken; and another, oak planked White Knife salmon.  

They paid their bill after a sennight, and a made a donation of some of the gold dragon coins to the septry, and to give to the poor.

 

 

 


	11. Jonquil

The site of the monastery had been occupied by humans since the time of the First Men, and where the water from the river White Knife was carried through an aquaduct system built by them and nearly as old.   Now it provided irrigation for the farmlands, and gathered by attendants employed by the monastery, it also provided fresh running water to the monastery kitchens for cooking and cleaning, or was heated in large cauldrons over a woodfire for bathing, and for the Inn.

  

* * *

  

When Sandor beheld Sansa in her bath, he nearly caught his breath, her beauty was so.  Her hair was up, bound with a pale, jonquil-coloured silk ribbon that she had managed to take with her from King's Landing, and she had slipped out of her chemise.   She stepped into a large oaken tub, lined with and partially draped from above with linen cloth for privacy.   Fresh herbs scented the bathwater and the sheets and blankets of the bed, and were strewn about the floor.  The bed was made of oak as well, the bedstead simple and, happily, the fresh straw mattress covered with a featherbed, likely sewn with the down and feathers from the farm's own geese and ducks, and also draped in sheer bedcurtains.   There was a flagon of wine and two cups on a nearby table, and a beeswax candle burned down in its holder.  A wooden cross hung on the wall. 

Sansa bade him join her.  When she rose from the hot water and wrapped herself in a linen towel, her skin was as soft and as sweet as the apple blossoms in spring.  She sat perched on the edge of the tub near him and scrubbed his back with a washcloth; kneaded his tired shoulders, put her arms around him and kissed him. 

"Ah, lass," he sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the oaken tub and relaxed, and he enjoyed the feeling of arousal.   She climbs into the tub again; the water splashes gently as she makes her way to him and mounts his lap, and putting her arms around his neck, she kisses him deeply.   Her wet shoulders glisten in the low light from the candle.  How he loved when she was this way, her kisses, and hearing her sweet words.   They reveled in each other.

"And now," he whispered when he had finished with his bath, "Come to bed, my lady."   He took her in his arms and lay her down.   She had been mad to love him too, and when he lifted her and bent to kiss her, her lips met his eagerly. 

On their last day at the monastery, he offers her his arm, and they stroll along the grounds and gardens together, and through the cloister.  Sansa visited the chapel.

 

* * *

  

The arrow hit and lodged in the wooden post of the gatehouse at the Castle's main entrance with a loud thunk, startling the sentry from his dozy reverie.  There was a message tied to it.  The scratched note was short and simple - _Please deliver to your Lord_.   Inside was another message, bearing the wax seal of House Stark, and written on monastery parchment paper:

 

_"My Dear Lord Cerwyn,_

_I beg your kind indulgence in providing shelter for my knights and myself, as a respite from our long journey back to Winterfell.  You need not go to any trouble; a safe night or two of rest and a warm fire is all we should require._

_I should arrive within the fortnight."_

_Most gratefully,_

_Sansa Stark of Winterfell"_

 

Lord Medger Cerwyn then awaited the arrival of Ned Stark's daughter and her ragtag retinue.

 

 

 

 


	12. Wolf's Call

Winterfell had its own regal quality, Sansa thought, perhaps not as opulent and showy as the Red Keep, but a rustic elegance, of rich dark wood, strong granite and limestone and bluestone, warm fires, towering evergreens, ice and snow and glass that gleamed like precious diamonds in the diffuse, low light of the winter sun.  And a wildness.  How could she have ever wished to be anywhere else.  The white of the snow brightly punctuated by the red of holly berries and winterberry boughs.   The fleeting glimpse of a red deer - the antlered hart, or a mother hind and fawn.   The muffled call of an owl from somewhere in the gathering dusk.  And here and there, a scarcely seen weirwood tree, that kept its blood-red leaves throughout the winter.

Moving through the trees at an easy, loping pace now, nearly effortless.  Right about now, they would be gathering the evergreens to decorate the hall and hearth for Yuletide; pine, spruce and yew, sentinel.   She could practically smell them.   How she loved the smell of the trees.  

 

* * *

 

When she awoke, she wrote by candlelight as her beloved Sandor rested.  They had been exhausted and had slept for hours.  She kissed him when he stirred awake, shared with him the letter she had written and told him of her plans.  They would have no secrets from each other.  She sealed the message closed with her house sigil; with her father's signet ring that she had been able to claim from his personal effects, pressing the embossed profile of the Stark direwolf into the melted wax.  What else had she been able to take with her?   A needle and thread of course, silk ribbons, a few warmer clothes, and Sandor's Kingsguard cloak, which she remembered she had thrown over her shoulders as she had swiftly ridden away from the Red Keep. 

The Elder Brother had allowed her to borrow a quill and paper from the scriptorium and library of the monastery to write the message to send to Lord Cerwyn, asking for his assistance and notifying them of when she might arrive.   It made her think of a wolf calling her pack, gathering them all together.   She'd send the message by Anguy and the Brotherhood, who would go before them at nightfall; the Brotherhood were outlaws, so they had to take care.  It might not be safe to send the message in person by rider. 

The next morning, she gave the message to Anguy.  She returned with breakfast - a basket of warm girdle scones with honey, eggs and some rashers of bacon, and a pot of herbal tea, from the kitchens - some sustenance for the last leg, Gods be good, of their journey home.

 

* * *

 

Lord Cerwyn considered for a moment.   _Ach_ , he muttered.  She was inexperienced and yet, her instincts were good.  She would learn.  Of course he would shelter her, for the sake of her father.   With all of the rumblings he'd been hearing about who would rule the North after the upheaval, he wanted to be careful.   A crippled child and a maester could not be expected to hold back discontent for long.  He would write and send a response by raven to the monastery personally.  He, a Stark loyalist, would trust no one else.

 

_My Dear Lady Stark,_

 

_Of course, anything you wish shall be at your disposal.   But I insist that I send my men to meet you, and accompany you back to Winterfell._

 

_Lord Medger Cerwyn_

 

 

 


	13. Uncertainty

 " _My Dear Lady Stark,_

 

_Of course, anything you wish shall be at your disposal.   But I insist that I send my men to meet you, and accompany you back to Winterfell._

 

_Lord Medger Cerwyn"_

 

"My dearling," Sansa said to Sandor, handing him the letter to read, as he finished his breakfast.  It was what she had hoped for.  But again, she almost didn't want them to come, but to continue on, with Sandor, on a road without end.   It had been beautiful, and strangely, familiar; and what she could not anticipate now filled her with dread.   _We will_ , he assured her, promised her.  _We will._   

"It is beautiful." he told her, as he thought of how she had clung to him in love and warmth in the little makeshift shelter, and he took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

She didn't want him to feel displaced, and she needed him now more than ever.   But they both knew it would be safer this way, and it would ease their way to acceptance by the North's people.

She had begun to remember some of Old Nan's stories about creatures in the North; about the Others and the Last Hero, and the spiders as big as hounds, stalking out there in the forest.   Half of her family murdered; the other half scattered.  Jon had left for the Night's Watch, the last time she saw him; she and Arya, such silly bickering and petty jealousies and quarrels as children and always at odds, what would she think of the Hound now, after all that had happened.   They were still sisters; still family.  And Bran, having to get along without his family as well as the use of his legs, and Rickon still a baby then.  Now they were all nearly grown, and she hadn't even been there with them.  She made a pledge to herself to do better.  

The Brotherhood had declined to join them; but Lord Beric had said, _you won't see us, but we can see you_.   And that was how it had been throughout most of the entire journey.  Sansa invited them to Winterfell.  A light snow began to fall as they rode; Sandor beside her and now wearing his hauberk and quilted gambeson, and a heavier, winter cloak for the cold North; dignified and magnificent.  

"Has it snowed yet, higher in the North?" she asked.

"We got snow already, m'lady," one of the younger soldiers piped up in answer to her, in spite of the withering glances of his superiors, who had presented her with a floral garland of blue hellebores, the blue winter roses of the North.  If the flowers were peeping up through the snow, she remembered, winter was here.  She brought the flowers to her nose and breathed in their sweet fragrance.

"Welcome home, Lady Stark."

"How lovely." She smiled and thanked them, all.

 

* * *

 

Castle Cerwyn

"You are married now."   Lord Cerwyn said, and Sansa felt a tightening in her chest, although she didn't think she heard any disapproval in his voice.   They sat before the hearth, the fire blazing; his deerhound at his feet.

She would never love another man the way she loved Sandor, so it was no use to even consider marrying anyone else.  She just would not marry, if not to him.  She was thankful that Northern custom was not so strict as in King's Landing, but she knew that she would not be considered truly married until she had had a ceremony in the North, according to their customs, a handfast before the Old Gods and ancestors.  They were a culture of strong men and strong women.  And Sandor was virtually a landed knight, but not of the upper nobility.    

"You must have a marriage ceremony here, for the people to celebrate and to honour their potential Queen, and the rise of a strong House Stark once again, and a united North."  Lord Cerwyn said.  "In time."  He continued on.  "Such a festive time of year for a celebration.  Let the North come to know him, your husband."   This, she knew, was a subtle reminder to her of her position and family name, and the importance of reputation, and all of the responsibility that came with it - but also that he had not forgotten what it was like to have been in love.

Yuletide was also the time warrior accolade ceremonies were held in the North, their equivalent of knighthood.  But it would have to be Sandor's decision, though, because she knew how much he despised political machinations and hypocrisy; and in truth, she couldn't blame him for that.  And despite his protestations otherwise, she knew he had something unfinished in Casterly Rock and with his brother.

"Yes."  Sansa said.   She understood now why her father thought so highly of Lord Cerwyn.

"You are a very wise man, My Lord." she said.

 

* * *

 

The next time Sandor Clegane would see her, after they had arrived Winterfell and for the Yuletide celebration, she would be wearing a deep as midnight blue velvet gown, with the Stark direwolf courant coat-of-arms embroidered in silvery threads and beading across the bodice, the long, draping sleeves and short cape around her shoulders edged in miniver, or the white winter coat of the noble ermine.   No doubt she had done such fine needlework herself, at some time.  Her beautiful hair was in a thick, simple braid that fell over one shoulder, nearly to her waist, and tied with a silver cording, which suited her far better than any elaborate style of the ladies of King's Landing; and with a delicate, crystalline circlet about her forehead, she looked every bit the Lady of Winterfell, where she belonged, and one day, even her Queen. 

 


	14. Rise

Wardeness of the North

In her father's solar, she touched the signet ring that she now wore on her index finger of her right hand, taken from the protective case she had received it in, and from the locked drawer where it had been kept. 

"I do this for the love of your mother, nothing more."  Lord Petyr Baelish had said, in that persuasive tone he had, when he had quietly returned it to her with her father's things back in King's Landing, with the tri-folded Stark banner.  There was a kind of ceremony to it, the kind her father should have had and deserved, and she fought back tears.  She supposed she should be grateful to him for it; and she was, reluctantly, indebted to him.   He had gone to considerable risk, using his influence to pull the unofficial strings needed in order to do it.  But she couldn't help but feel that there was something he wanted from her.

Under King Robert, the North had enjoyed a semi-autonomy to practice their ways and beliefs, due to the region's remoteness and the regard he held for her father, with their long-standing history and abiding friendship.  But there was no telling what a new regime might do.

Northern custom held that the eldest trueborn heir, regardless of gender, would inherit and rule.  And with Jon not being trueborn, not that it mattered to her, and bound now to the Night's Watch, the responsibility fell to her.  _Poor Jon._   It was as if he carried that burden on his shoulders with him like a heavy cloak.

There would be court appointments to be considered, some hereditary, others at her discretion, and there would be many hopefuls vying for an opportunity, or expecting reward.  The things she must do if her family was to survive.  _Oh, to have those around her whom she could trust_ , she thought.   _Sandor_.   She must find a place for him at her side.  Lord Marshal was a hereditary title; but the second-in-command, the Captain of the North Guard, was a possibility and would do nicely.  If Sandor would have it.   Her advisors would be jointly her brothers and sister; to have all three as Hands would be seen as an unusual motion.  She would present all this to the Lords at the next Council meeting.

Her father now rested where he belonged.   She sat down in his great chair, considering it all from his vantage point, or what she thought it might be if he were still here.  Everything was so familiar in this room, the smell of musty old volumes and ledger-books, ink and feather at his right hand, the heavy fabrics lining the walls and at the windows and of the upholstered furniture, all of her father's things, that it had all come back to her in a wave of emotion.  How she had cowered in the Whispering Wood and from the sounds of the night, shivering, Sandor's cloak wrapped about her, warming her hands over a fire she had been only just barely able to build, thinking of her father's instruction to his children.   _The lone wolf dies; but the pack survives._ And then, awakening the next morning to the cries and songs of birds, the snow shrikes migrating from the far, boreal North for the winter, before the snows flew.  It had all been worth it - all of the uncertainty, all of the pain, in getting home. 

Her footsteps had echoed on the stone steps as she had gone down to the crypts to see him.  At her father's entombment, Sansa had still been travelling back to Winterfell and had missed it all.  On the anniversary of his death, a memorial service was held when the stone likeness of him was complete, sculpted by a Northern stonecarver of reknown, from Northern quarry granite; and it now stood, with his direwolf guardian curled at his feet and ancestral greatsword across his lap, with his father before him and his sister; and she had stood there in her somber dress and hooded cape feeling as if her limbs were made of stone as well.  The original sword had been stolen by the Lannisters, and its whereabouts now only the Gods knew, when it should be hanging in the Great Hall of Winterfell.  But the people of the North, both noble and commonfolk (who affectionately called her father "Lord Ned", she remembered now with a tearful smile), had given her family much support, and it helped her to bear up, and she had been surprised at how much it had meant to her, and very grateful.  Her father was no traitor here.

But now it was time for the holiday.  She had to prepare for The Night of Mothers, the first night of Yule, one night, where the female ancestors and spirits were honoured.  The embroidered bodice of the dress she would wear had been a collaborative effort with the Stark women; her mother as well, her aunt Lyanna, her paternal grandmother Lyarra Flint Stark, of the mountain clans, who had married Lord Rickard Stark, her cousin once removed.  Arya was the namesake of their paternal great grandmother, Arya Flint Stark.  Now there would be a new tapestry panel, and Sansa's finished portion of needlework would be added to theirs. 

 

* * *

 

Sandor Clegane marveled that a place so cold could be so beautiful, and have so much warmth.   Wisps of pale grey smoke rose into the sky from the hearths of the plain and simple houses.  The reputation of the North for reserve and harshness in this environment was legendary, and like most legends, there was some truth in it, but the stories had been so oft told and embellished that they had become bigger than life.   In general, he would find in time that the people were a reserved folk at first, but once past that, their hospitality and warm humour shone through; and theirs was not the friendship of the superficial, fleeting kind, but of deep loyalty and devotion. 

He walked past some children, singing the Yule song, holding hands, laughing and dancing in a circle in the tramped, packed snow, first in one direction, then the other:  "Who will be the Holly King, who will be the Oak King . . ." they happily chanted and sang.  "Who will wear the crown, who will bear the crown?" 

He smiled.  There was the clamour of street vendors hawking their wares from market stalls and carts, the sweet and savoury aromas coming from the cookshops; hot pies and ale.  He continued to wander through the town, the cowl of his roughspun cloak raised over his head and partly obscuring the scarred side of his face, unknown in this place, which was something he found he enjoyed, until he reached the wooded edge.

"You there!" he heard a man call out to him. He turned round to see a group of people.

"You look like a hale enough fellow. Come and help us carry the log for the Yule, and bring it to the town square!"

They all hauled the log through the snow, a fine old fallen oak, back into town by means of ropes, and Sandor joined them at the town's alehouse after.

 

* * *

 

He lay back on his bed at Winterfell's guest house.  She had looked so beautiful when last he saw her, and he missed her.   He thought of the nights they had spent together on their journey.

"Come and sit by me, girl." he would say. 

On nights when the air was cold and clear such as this, they would sit huddled under a blanket together near the fire, counting the stars in the heavens, the stars almost near enough to touch, before they would love and fall asleep together.  

And when she heard the faraway calls of the Northern wolves, she was not fearful, but happy; for she knew that she was almost home.

 

 


	15. Oathkeeper

"By the Gods, I'm perished!" Old Nan exclaimed about how cold it was, coming in from the from across the courtyard to let Sansa in to the locked kitchen.   It was well after supper.  Sansa began putting some leftover dessert cakes into a bread cloth, and put some water on to boil for tea.  Lemon cakes were Sansa's favorite, Nan knew, and she had put some aside for her.

"Where are you off to, child, at this hour?" she asked Sansa. 

Sansa took Old Nan's hands in hers, and kissed her cheek.  "Nan!"  she said.   "Keep a secret?" 

They'd hardly seen each other since Sansa's return, and they enjoyed a cup of tea as they talked.  The old woman's hands were gnarled now, the skin of her cheeks delicate and paper thin; but there was still a bit of the roses in them that she must have had as a girl.  Sansa had missed her.

"I'll not say a word!"  Nan assured her.

Sansa wondered if Nan had noticed the slight peek of the lace of her nightdress that showed under the hem of her cloak.  "We'll talk again soon."  she said.

Sansa made her way from the Great Keep across the courtyard, carrying a lantern, which she almost did not need - when she looked up, the sky was alight with stars.

 

* * *

 

Sandor was just about to blow out the candle for the night to try and get some sleep, when he heard a light knocking at the door. 

"Sandor?"  Sansa's voice was a low whisper.  "Sandor!" 

"Did you think I had forgotten about you?"  Sansa was beaming as Sandor opened the door and she entered the room.  "I needed to see you.  I can't sleep at the house."  There were too many memories there yet; too many ghosts of memories.

"Sansa."  He swept her up into his arms.

"It's been . . . busy.   As you can well imagine."  she said, picking up the lantern from the floor and setting it down on the bedside table, hanging up her cloak and sitting at the edge of the bed.   The lantern cast its warm light and dancing shadows on the walls. 

"Are you comfortable?  It's warm; nice, isn't it.  It's the hot springs, you know.  Winterfell was built over them." 

"Remarkable."   He teased, kissing her.

She'd brought some lemon cakes with her that she'd gotten from the kitchens, and set the basket down on the dining table.  For visiting dignitaries, the guest house was beautiful and well-appointed, and quite comfortable.

"I know it must be a lot, getting used to all of us here, and I didn't want you to feel shunted aside."

"I see."  he smiled.  He was not a man easily overwhelmed.  Except perhaps sometimes by her.

She asked about his past two days, and he told her he'd spent them getting acquainted with the place.  "Good."  she said.

"Well I hope you haven't been bored.  It's hardly King's Landing here."  She smiled, a playful twinkle in her eyes.

He was just as glad that it wasn't, he told her.  

"So am I." 

They might see the Glass Gardens conservatory and orangery together tomorrow.

"I wanted to talk with you about something else also.   About a place here that I hope you will consider.   Captain of the North Guard, a position once held by Jory Cassel, someone very well thought of and loved by our family.  He was his father's last surviving son."   

"Yes."  Sandor knew of him from King's Landing.  "Yes.  I remember him." 

"You'd do as you had in King's Landing for the Lannisters, keeping our family and our House safe.  I need you here, Sandor, someone I can trust.   It is your decision, of course." 

He had the flash of a terrible memory then, and he tried to drive it away, to not let it show on his face, her father there up on the execution scaffold, and his last words uttered, _"Clegane"_ , desperate and that he could barely hear above the din of the crowd:  " _Help my girls."_    All Sandor could do was to grip Ned's shoulder to confirm that he had heard him and understood, and would do as he was bid, without betraying his words up there during that ugly spectacle that Sansa had to witness.  And then he stepped aside and back, when Payne swung the sword, until the whole damned bloody lie of a business was over and done with.    _Blaigeards,_ he thought _._

"I saw how you were in King's Landing, you were a blessing to me, and I've travelled nearly halfway across a continent with you, for months.  I've seen you you at your best, you've seen me at my worst, and I know the kind of man you are."  

She'd never been at her worst, he told her.   And if he was a better man now, it had to do in part, he thought, to the urgent appeal that her father had made to him, a call to his better self.

She took his hands in hers, kissed them and held them to her cheek. 

"And why should I take a chance with someone I don't know anyway?"  she continued.  "You will also have an advisory role.  The chief advisors will be family, my brothers and sister, of course, I owe them that, and our maester, but you will have a voice too.   Father always said it was best to have a view beyond Winterfell's walls."

One daughter he had been unable to reach; but Sansa had stayed behind, stoically bearing it all as if in penance, and he had been able to help her.  And now he loved her.  He found she had a great reserve of strength in her, a well of it, and he would help her in any way that he could.  Her trials had tempered her, as they do; something she had probably now discovered about herself as well.  And if she had begun to be happy again, if he had humbly played any part in that, he would not say anything to cause her any more distress.  But one day he would tell them both, in time.  Until then, it would be an oath well kept.

"The Lords will approve, the majority of them, I am sure of it, as they know all you have done for me, and your reputation.  I will bring it before them at the next Council meeting.  

"My place is with you." he said.   King's Landing or Winterfell, queen or commoner.  "And I would be honoured.  I will consider it well." 

"And I have been _advised,_ " she said, making a face showing her displeasure, "that we should keep things quiet about our marriage, just for a little while, until things settle down a bit." 

 He gently tilted up her pretty chin to kiss her again.  "Will you stay tonight."

 "For as long as I can." she said, and slipped into bed beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> A latecomer to GoT, and have now become enthralled. Musical inspiration: 'Come Down in Time' - Elton John, 'Martha My Dear' - the Beatles
> 
> Disclaimer: Game of Thrones, characters and any story references relating to it belong to GRRM and/or HBO.


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